Music of the Night

first draft

The ringing of her ears is the only noise that saves her from that silence. The night rustle silence where everything moves to the side and back. Silently, but screaming so loudly for your attention that a falling leaf is mistaken for a bat or a bullet or a crazed killer. What can be made of the silence of night, when everything is summoned to life, but a noiseless life? The possibilities that lie in silence are endless because they go unnoticed. And all unnoticed things are endless, are they not? The movement of a spirit is the soundless roar of an engine during the day, that which blends in to the scuffle of the street and that city babies learn to sleep through from conception.. The endless noise of the city is silenced at night in the darkness where nothing stirs but motion herself. And this endless motion of twinkling advertisements and lights that burn our souls coincides within the corner of our eye. What we see there lacks comprehension, it swallows us whole for less than a nanosecond and then spits us back so that we forget the noise we were exposed to. Oh gracious night, you comfort those who sleep but in their dreams haunt the day’s memories and fling them back, full sound, for no one to hear but the victim alone. The dayless dreams of night that spin themselves into frenzies of wakefulness are the spirits of the day. Their memory haunts us and reminds us of night, oh noiseless night, in which nothing stirs but motion herself. This motion is tucked behind a curtain and shows herself only to those she trusts. The ringing of her ears is her curtain and her guise that conceal her inner thoughts from herself and from the dreamers that haunt the night. Those who are haunted are haunted in return, but one thousand times worse. The falling bat kills the senses and an arrow slices the heart as quickly as a bullet. Follow me, it says, but no one knows who to believe. Do we follow the dreamer or the hunter? Motion or the silence of motionlessness? It is these decisions that make her who she is and the decisions are perforated by the ringing in her ears. She remembers the music and the motion of a midnight betrayal, but pretends that night is silent. She dreams the truth but tells herself that her dreams are merely a haunting and the work of some crazed killer. How is she to know when out of the corner of her eye she sees the motion of truth. This truth is incomprehensible, yet it draws her in and forces her to remember. Oh motion, it says, don’t you remember where you went in your past? These days seems to pass by in a motionless trance. You realize, do you not, dear motion, that silence is your friend. Hidden secrets dart past you but make sense in the end. Let your thoughts merge into the corner of your eye. Your eyes are the windows to your soul are they not? When thought meets soul it births idea, and idea can only be truth, motion dear. Let the bullet fall, she prays, before idea forms silently. A wish to forget creeps into the night, the night, however, cannot help but to remember the music and the motion. Violation and betrayal caress her lips and her body but only her eyes see the truth. A bat falls from the sky as silently as a leaf and is mistaken for a shadow. The darkness lies, despite the twinkling lights. Only the brave can be free, it said, but motion doesn’t listen to these words or any other. This wave of idea is crashing against a shore of night. Stillness is a cradle from within a scream develops. Can motion’s lungs bear that scream or is the night too daring to disturb? No one knows but everyone questions the dreamless mind. Staying still deprives the eye of the cornerless sights that are incomprehensible.  Motion do you not remember the bed that you laid upon and the music? Oh motion the night holds many secrets for you. Dreams tell lies, and lies spread secrets amongst themselves. If the night is the mother of dreams than is it not the mother of lies as well? The lie of motion and motionlessness is infertile and gladly so. Betrayal reeks of music and movement. Of sound and rubber cement. Only the wise can come unglued from the stage set they build; only the bat or the bullet can fall as swiftly as a leaf and as silently as motion herself. Motion was tossed onto the bed in the midst of the music. But this was not to the benefit of the lies. The bed was not for sleep or dreams, but for motion and music and lies. Lies do not like to tell secrets, but it is in their nature to do as they are told. It is only the incomprehensibility of comprehension herself that guides and governs over dream and lie alike. The motion of the night and the twinkling of her lights coincide with the city silence. Silence is just a joke it seems but motion doesn’t believe that, you see, motion and me are twins.  Me and the motion that lies in the night, she sees what I feel but what I feel are all lies. My dreams disguise the truth inside the corner of my eye. Night is the cradle in which we are birthed. It starts out at birth but runs to the sea. The sea is busy at night, you see. The silence of night and her twinkling city lights coincide with the breath in me. A wish to forget creeps into dear motion; her arms are numb with relief. The motion of the night is still at last, but the bed is jostled out from underneath, the ground is cold and the bat is falling down again like a leaf. The silence of night is a beautiful thing but the ringing in her ears is her only relief. My twin and I are the perfect match our eyes the same as we. The silence of night is reflected in our eyes but we drown ourselves down at the sea. Lies always forget their creators; their governess is the head of the sea. And night is the mother of dreams, is she not, and lies the baby of dreams. A city baby learns at an early age to ignore the noise of its home. But my twin, don’t you see, isn’t from the city and she never learned to ignore. Oh let me forget, she whispers. That the sea could wash her clean is a dream. And dreams are just lies. Lies can only be told and amongst themselves never be free. The music of the night is silent and still at last. Cannot escape me, it says, the bed screams for her attention but is noticed no more than a falling leaf. The night swallows whole its entirety and everything moved from one side to the other. Finally it has found its place, and the order of the night is aligned with the lights of the city and its noise. Motion waits for me at the sea. The waves caress her lips and her body and the sky is as black as her soul. The soul is the cradle, you see. We are born to the soul in the silence of night and out of the corner of the eye is incomprehensibility. It is born as won as we. One cannot live without the other; the singsong riddle of youth cannot be complete without the leaf of the tree and the sea. Together in harmony the silence awaits her. Oh let me forget, motion whispers, before it is too late. Please erase the dream. But lie cannot be replaced with nonexistence. Lies only grow within themselves. The bed and the music and the night all crash together and the dream continues. Don’t you see, says the bed, you were my only company. And your innocence has set me free. The spirit of the night has been joined with another, and he is the spirit of sleep. Sleep is the father of dreams, is he not, and night is the mother of the sea. The sea and the dream are twins. The motion is one and music the other. The one twin is tired and lonely and silent, the other a mess of music and betrayal and violation. Impregnate the nation, violation, because lies have set you free. Don’t you see that the sea had carried a dream on her wings but a lie has been born from that dream? The silence is golden but bullets are silver and lies are a part of me. Motion caresses the soul of her twin but healing is a past memory. Memory forgets itself and the silence is drowned in the sea. When memory meets dream, the two coincide to set the soul free. But like a leaf, it falls down again and idea cannot ever be free. If anyone knew who the mind reckoned to, believe me the silence would scream. Silence and night coincide, don’t you see, but the city is a part of me.

Author's Note

2nd posting, hurray for restoration

Reviews

[Andromeda]

ok, i have no idea really what it means, but it's just so pretty! i think it's got something to do w/ a broken heart and it reminds me of The Phantom of the Opera. i love it!